


Start From the End (Repeat Your Part Again)

by LuciferIsSatan



Series: Don't Forget Your Lines [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Canonical Character Death, Emotionally Compromising Situations, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Mentions of Sexual Content, Mild Language, Multi, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-24
Updated: 2015-03-24
Packaged: 2018-03-19 11:58:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3609288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuciferIsSatan/pseuds/LuciferIsSatan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Crowley woke up, he knew something was amiss. The first clue was the fact that he woke up, and the second being that there was a strangely familiar arm wrapped around his middle, and the owner of said arm hadn't been alive in years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Start From the End (Repeat Your Part Again)

**Author's Note:**

> I got this idea while reading around and it's (something else) I've been sitting on writing. This was influenced by Cloud Atlas (sorta) at least seven different fanfictions, and a prompt sent to me, that I'm playing around with at this point. Stocked _full_ of references, by the way-- hope it's not too overbearing. (Also, unbeta'd, like most everything I write, so I'm terrible sorry about that too.) Please, Enjoy.

The thing about demons, or more specifically about Crowley, is that he's always aware when there's something amiss. He knew something was wrong from the start, could feel it when he aroused from his rest, his face planted and buried against the soft pillow he had been sleeping against.

The way it smelled was too familiar, like faded cologne and lingering oil and gunpowder. The demon shifted, a soft muffled groan passing his lips and scrunching up his face as he tried to figure out where he was without causing too much attention to himself. Was he someplace dangerous? Did someone capture him? Crowley wasn't sure if it was wise to make his awareness known around him, mostly because he couldn't be certain if anyone was waiting for him to wake. However, the blankets covering him were too warm, too soft to indicate he was in any trouble, and the pillow against his face said he was someplace safe.

He just couldn't remember where.

Crowley didn't recall falling asleep anywhere, but, then again, Crowley can't remember a great deal of things right now. Maybe he got hit over the head; maybe he's in the bunker with the boys. He's been staying over every now and again when they are in desperate need of his assistance with this whole "Mark of Cain" business. It can be ridiculous at times, but he can't help but feel safer between those four walls than he does in his own kingdom.

It's been a long time since he's felt that way about anywhere.

Crowley knew something was wrong when he shifted, noticing, for the first time, the solid weight pressed against his back. There was something strong draped over his middle, tucked and wrapped around him. He furrowed his brows, curling his fingers against the sheet's by his torso and carefully shifted again. Mapping everything out, trying to find an escape route if possible with the least amount of damage. However, he was successfully trapped between the others body, with whoever the hell had a hold of him.

With a weary sigh, quiet and soft, Crowley attempted to peek an eye open. Golden sunlight was washed over his face, flooding the room and making sight incredibly difficult to accomplish, blinking hard a few times in order to adjust his vision, which, again, was rather odd. Why would he be trapped someplace that had a window? It was like this idiot wasn't even _trying_ to keep him trapped; either that, or they were a hell of a lot smarter than Crowley had originally assumed. Had to be a trick- of course it was, undeniably.

With a shaky breath, he averted his eyes away from the window, scanning over the off-white walls and to the beaten down night stand just ahead- and, and to the..- the, scattered books, sprawled out.. _everywhere._

The demon blinked. That _can't_ be right.

Crowley almost had forgotten the arm draped around his middle when he pushed slightly to sort of sit a bit upright, taking in the entire room in his wake. The beaten down dresser at the end of the bed across the room, the door off to the left of center, the window to the right, the obscured closet to his left.

And then the bed under his body.

Crowley recognized the sheet's, worn and used and looking sort of grey as they faded from years of use. The end of the bed frame was covered in scratches and blotchy with what was wearing and what wasn't, and that long scratch down the middle looked terribly familiar. Crowley can remember cleaning up after hunts where he's helped a certain middle-aged hunter care for his wounds; can remember tools and weapons getting misplaced and dragged along the frame when they got a little clumsy.

Crowley's breath was all but irregular at this point, shallow as he felt the body next to his own move, a soft groan touching their lips and the sound erupted in his ears. The offsets of panic were stringing together at the edges of his mind and body because it _wasn't possible_ for him to be lying there. It _couldn't_ be him, and yet that's the only person Crowley wanted to see, tucked up and asleep and he was downright _terrified_ that this illusion would simply burst if it wasn't.

All of this was an illusion, it had to be. The house, the body by his side, all of it. This place burned down.. _years_ ago, how would it be-

Crowley stopped, feeling the subtle shift against his body. His eyes stayed still, staring against the blanket, seeing where the empty space from blanket to sheet started at the edge of the bed, to where it stopped, brushing over and covering a foot that didn't belong to him. His eyes trailed up, running over the legs and stopping at the hips where the blanket becomes ruffled and slid off of the other's torso.

The demon didn't fight the urge as he glanced up to the slow moving chest, expanding ever so gently with every shallow intake of air. With a slight tilt of his head, he followed up from his chest to his throat, before landing his eyes on his relaxed, sleeping face.

Crowley can't remember having ever been so desperate to get out a room so quickly before, and he couldn't be sure if he woke the creature as he darted so quickly out of the room, seeing as he didn't stay long to make sure.

His bare feet padded against the wooden floor boards, and he was half-way down the stairs when he realized he wasn't even wearing his clothes, but rather in a pair of pajamas he's never seen before. He could hear a soft squeak from upstairs that sounded like bed springs; the tension diminishing which also means that, whoever he is, is up and about. Most likely because Crowley must have startled him awake.

Crowley tried desperately to get out of there, tried to jump back to hell, transport _somewhere_ but he couldn't- he couldn't feel anything. Not hell, not heaven, not anywhere. Becoming painfully more and more aware of himself and how utterly incapable and helpless he was to get away from whatever that thing was. He wanted to think it was a shifter, but he couldn't bleeding _tell_.

He couldn't feel souls, couldn't see true forms. Just grade-A human vision and it was _frustrating_.

In his panic, he tried looking for escape routes, which were a lot easier to come across than should have been possible, if this was supposed to be some sort of kidnapping. The windows all looked unlocked and open, nothing was padlocked and everything was easily accessible. Crowley was frozen, standing in the middle of the living room, trying to process what the hell is going on, when he noticed that the books were all put away; stacked up and shelved nicely. Crowley glanced up towards the ceiling and saw that it was blank, no Devils trap in sight-- not even remnants of it ever being there.

"Crowley?" the demon heard come from the top of the staircase, with a few lumbering thumps as the creature sauntered down the steps.

The demon glanced away from the staircase when he saw feet, turning his head in the direction of the kitchen but stopping short when he saw a photograph on the wall. Crowley blinked up in confusion, was that-?

"Crowley, the hell are you doing out of bed this early?" Came the tired rumbled drawl of the other, freezing the demon in place. Crowley was facing the entree way of the kitchen, maybe if he was quick enough-

A strong, gentle hand touched his shoulder, and if Crowley was any less of a person, he would have jolted away as if it burned. However, he didn't quite do that. Instead, he stood there, focused on the touch and struggling to stay passive when the light pressure became enough to turn him around, and Crowley was greeted by a softly concerned, sleepy expression that honestly didn't look the least bit aggressive.

His expression could only be described as soft, if not a bit worrisome, but it was the most frightening thing Crowley's ever seen.

For the soul reason that he shouldn't be seeing this.

"Robert," the name fell from his lips when it wasn't supposed to, and the creature that looked just like the hunter, inclined its head at him. He looked at him with a sort of curious gentleness that Crowley can remember Robert holding in the early hours of the morning. 

"Yeah," he murmured in response, looking as if he was still grasping at his consciousnesses, "you alright? Bad dream?"

Crowley blinked up at the man with astonishment, eyes skittering over his face and trying to find some sort of answer that he couldn't locate. "Something like that," he answered instead, which seemed to put the hunter at ease, and it was terribly odd seeing just his face. He couldn't see his blue light.. couldn't see his energy, and couldn't even _feel_ the other's soul once the man leaned down and pressed a tender kiss against the side of his mouth.

The day drifted on by like a blurred dream, where little fragments of this life are told to him, although he can't remember a thing about it. He has a job at a law firm, works a nine to five job to be exact, and helped raise Sam and Dean. Him and Bobby had met in a library by chance, and stuck together there after.

A year drifted by, almost as slow as the first day. But soon he was picking up a habit.

Dinner at six, the boy's come over for holidays, and Bobby still works as a hunter. Supernatural creatures didn't exist, as he came to find, and Bobby was just Bobby. They spent their afternoons reading together, and sometimes Crowley would still see _his_ Bobby hiding somewhere in the inner shell of this version. Here, in this strange form of reality, his name was actually Anthony Crowley, and him and Bobby have talked about weddings during a time he couldn't recall and never tried too. He never settled to believe that any of this was real, and only decided to play along.

He lived out the rest of his life here, lying in bed with a man who was Bobby, _his_ Bobby, that he had taken too long to realize-- even if he couldn't remember him.

He lived, then he died.

He woke up in an apartment building somewhere in the north court of New York, he was a literary agent and he had a huge project he was working on for his team. They had a new intern showing up at the end of the day. It was Bobby.

He had blond hair this time, a rounder face, and was 20 some years younger with an accent, but he was undoubtedly Bobby. Crowley didn't know how he knew, but he did. He went by Richard and was working his way through college.

He doesn't remember Crowley, not even the slightest hint, but Crowley can't forget. Remembers all the hours they shared in his living room, remembers all the messy hunts and the rotgut he enjoyed; but he also remembered the books, and his dirty ball cap he never took off. He remembers how he prefers his cocoa and how he laughs, and surprises the man when he takes a 'wild' guess on his favourite movie, and earn's himself a date.

They stay together for years after that, and buy a home by the sea where they collect sea shell's and Bobby talks about how much he's always wanted children, even when he knew that they could never have any.

They live, and they die wrapped around each other once a bad storm hits the shore, and they didn't hear the siren's warning of the oncoming wave.

Crowley's a musician.

He live's in 1273 and write's symphonies his whole life long. He never meet's Bobby in this life, but he still remembers, and sometime's he'll think of how he'll hum something off tune and he'll find that in some of his music.

In another, he's a captain, and Bobby's a sailor and they travel together, and Crowley finds himself falling in love all over again when he hear's the other tell fable's of creatures in the sea that in one lifetime were real, but in this life didn't exist. He spoke of things like the Kraken, and mermaids and siran's and Crowley falls in love with his words because even though his hair is now curly, and he's terribly thin, he's still his Bobby and he still talk's like him and muse's like him.

Bobby doesn't love him in this life, because there's someone at home he's waiting to return to once they take shore. They have a child together, that he never meets and Crowley hate's himself and waits for it all to end.

In the next life, they meet in Paris. The year is 1940 and Bobby is a woman. With soft blonde curls and a gentle face, who goes by Renée, and honestly Crowley could have cried knowing that her name meant "reborn", but he never commented about it as they talked about the oncoming war, while he buys her a few drinks to pass the rest of their time together.

Crowley was soon drafted into the war and sometimes sent her letter's, and often times Bobby would send some back. They'd talk about nothing and everything, and she'd talk about how she was getting along in Normandy with her father and two brother's.

Sometimes in these lives, they never really meet. Sometimes it's for just a moment, a passing on the street, or a brush of the arm, and it's in these moments where Crowley has to decide whether it's worth it or not. Worth watching him die again - worth putting himself in harms way again.

It's always worth it, he know's this.

But sometimes he decides to go after him too late.

Sometimes Bobby doesn't exist in a life, other times he dies before Crowley comes along, or is born after Crowley's too old to care for himself. Life after life, and Crowley can remember every single one of them, and yet Bobby never recognizes him, never once know's his name or remembers the years they shared.

Sometimes they're movie stars, other times beggers. They're soldiers, warriors, knights and kings; they're princes's and princess's. They're kids that meet at school, and Bobby has such a talent for drawing; sometimes they're on opposite sides of the war, where Crowley realizes too late where his bullet had strayed. They're adults working in shops parallel to one another. They're childhood friends, roommates in college, they're colleagues, brother's, friends, and lovers.

Bobby's a school teacher, married, and has three kids of his own and these were the worst lives Crowley has ever lived.

Because sometimes in these lives Bobby's already happy without him, and he know's he can't do anything about it.

He meet's Bobby at the ends of the earth, where people still believe the world is flat and there is nothing but a God in heaven looking down at them. He finds him when he's not a him, and dancing in lovely gowns and soft eyeliner with a gentle smile, and holds his hand when they're hiding from the police in fear of being caught and arrested.

They live on the edge, with leather jackets and sharp knives where all there is, is the dust picking up behind them as they drive with the wind in their hair, and the sound of the engine with dirt roads under their tires. In dark dresses, or religious habits, kissing against walls of churches that Crowley never cared for but knew he had to follow. Where Nazi's were hunting for them, and when car's fly into accidents. And sometimes getting caught wasn't so severe.

Sometimes Crowley wishes that this life would the last time.

The last time he has to watch Bobby fall from addiction, or with his arms spread out like wings and there's tears in his eyes but a smile on his lips as he tilts back and let's himself fall. Fall from buildings, ledges, boats and grace. Where Crowley is too slow to grab him, is too slow with his words and can't save him. Wishes it was the last time he had to see a gun propped in the other's lips, where in the next life he presses a thousand kisses along, blowing raspberries along his cheeks during office hours as they laugh.

He remembers cold mornings in an apartment, with Bobby making cocoa and listening to bad music, wearing pajama's in the early hours of the morning and singing off key to a song they both loved. He lived where Bobby was a rebellious teen who was struggling with an addiction that Crowley couldn't save him from.

They were having dinner, it was a nice little restaurant down in Chicago, and the year was 1922. Bobby was a year older than himself, and worked as a historian while Crowley was part of the Mafia-- it wasn't a personal choice, but more something that he had fallen into, but Bobby didn't need to know that. His name was James, and he loved talking about what they could do if one day they could actually be out in the stars, and Crowley would nod along because one day they _do_ travel in the stars because people are capable of amazing things, but the other doesn't need to know that just yet.

"Can you imagine, Anthony?" he had said with such wonder in his voice, that Crowley couldn't help but smile, "maybe one day we could inhabit the moon, live there, y'know?"

"Maybe we could," Crowley responded with a bit of enthusiasm, because although he knew that they never would, and instead would create these space stations across the galaxy, he didn't want to seem as if he was bored with the other's dreams. "Maybe we could fly there together one day, retire on the moon."

And Bobby chuckled because he wasn't a hunter and he hadn't lived a life where he had to worry about monsters and creatures under his bed; so he laughed easy, and jovially, because there was nothing preventing him from smiling anymore.

Then there was a shot and a shout, and Bobby was on the ground.

Crowley looked up to see the rival gang to his own, and the man who holding the gun had a smile that reminded him of Alastair, and Crowley screamed but another shot went off and he hit the floor with a thud.

He see's Bobby with short blond hair and in pig tails with hoodies, and jeans, and trenchcoats, and suits. He see's him with wings and a halo as a sort of angel he doesn't quite recall, and with steel toe boots and black eyeliner and a crazed look in his eye. Where he's beheaded for kissing the man he can't recall, goes up in flames like a Martyr for sleeping with him and maimed for being in love. Crowley wishes it would all just stop, but they live, and they die, and that's the only certainty between these lives as he continues to live through them. They're the only steady arch of it all, and it feel's like he continuously ruins his chance to perhaps make this life time worth it in the end.

And he keeps waiting for the day he may finally wake up and Bobby is actually there and never died, and that was just one part of a life that never truly happened. But no, his Bobby died, and these Bobby's keep dying, and it's becoming more and more unbearable the more he tries to prevent it.

And maybe one day he'll wake up as a demon, as he should, and Bobby as a hunter, as he was, and the Leviathan's had never been released from Purgatory and never will because Crowley know's better now and maybe preventing it might have saved Bobby his life. But that was a few hundred lifetimes ago, in counting, and sometimes his memories are growing a bit fuzzy, but they're still there. He know's who he is, and he know's who Bobby is, and sometimes he reminds the hunter, but never does Bobby remember and Crowley has comes to terms that he damn well never will.

-

"Did you finish writing the screen play out yet?" Crowley had asked, folding up the last of the envelopes and sliding them over to the other, who only rolled his eyes at him.

"I told you, I need another week." Bobby, or Eddy, insisted, quirking his lips, "you _know_ how long it takes to write."

"The boss isn't going to be too happy with you, love," Crowley reprimanded, but smiled none the less, walking over to the man sitting at his desk. Eddy looked up at him with bright amused eyes, turning in his chair and pulling the other down onto his lap. "What's it about anyways? Or are you still going to wait until it's published to tell me?"

Eddy wrapped his arms around the other mans waist, upturning his head to press a kiss against the others cheek, "uhm," he hummed a moment, pressing his lips in a thin line and looking away as if in mock thought, "I _think_ I can trust you,"

"I'd hope so," Crowley pressed his own kiss along his lovers cheek, "you don't even have to give me the full story, just a general idea would be fine."

Eddy nodded, running his hand along the other's hips before puffing out a soft sigh, "It's ah.. it's pretty different from my last idea,"

Crowley eyed him, intrigued.

Eddy took that as a good sign and continued, "it's pretty off the wall, but the first draft got some great feed back, a guy named Eric said he wanted the whole thing-"

"I already _know_ that darling," Crowley urged, "now, what's it _about_?"

Eddy paused again, seemingly unsure but sighed, "Like I said, it's a little weird," but Crowley nodded him on, so he began, "has to do with the uhm.. with the end of the world. Armageddon, angel's and demons, the whole nine yards," he chewed the inside of his cheek as he went on, "the main characters are two brothers who are traveling around America, hunting monsters, and saving people."

Eddy didn't miss when the smile fell from Crowley's face, and his own contorted in concern. "What's wrong?"

"Oh, ah," Crowley shook his head, "Nothing, it's nothing." Eddy didn't believe him, leaning up to press a kiss against his cheek.

"If you didn't like it, I could always rewrite-"

"No, no, don't do a silly thing like that," Crowley said slowly, "there's nothing wrong with the story. It sounds wonderful, actually."

Eddy eyed him, reaching his hand up to brush a few strands out of his face, "if there's something wrong, you know you can always tell me," he murmured slowly, "You know I'm always here for you."

 _Not really_ Crowley thought to himself, but never gathered enough courage to say so aloud.

-

"Don't forget to let out the dog," Crowley's ear's perked when he heard the soft voice from behind, before soft lips pressed against the side of his head. Crowley upturned to look at her soft expression and cheery grin. Her hair was short and her lips were full, and she was excited that her art piece had been accepted into one of the Gallery's downtown. She was heading down to the showing now, as it seemed, and would be out all night. She was even wearing that soft black gown he'd bought for her on their anniversary.

"I won't," he reached up and pressed a soft kiss against her hair line, sitting up straighter from where he was working. Grading essays was a drag, but he enjoyed his job as a English Professor, and his students weren't all that bad. Renée smile's her bright toothy smile, and Crowley can't help but think she's the closest to Bobby he's ever really gotten in his time line.

She listen's to the same music, loves the same stories, and often stay's up late reading those old mythological books he keeps buried in his book shelf that she always comes to find. Renée is as gentle as he was, and has that same look on her face he did whenever they found something particularly ridiculous, and laughed in that same hiccuped laugh he did whenever they found something funny.

But she had her difference's, as there would always be difference's.

And so she left after pressing a few more kisses to his cheek, and she was blooming with an excitement Crowley hadn't seen on her face in a long time.

It was late, and he was on the last of his essays when he received a phone call. Crowley didn't think much of it when he answers, and there's a man on the line. "Hello?"

"Hello is this uhm.. is this Fergus?" the voice on the other line was shaking, and Crowley didn't know who it was; he didn't sound like one of his students.

"Yes, who is this?"

"Man, I just found your name as one of her emergency contacts, I don't.. I don't know _who_ she is, I- I already called an ambulance, but she's not _moving_ man-"

Crowley's blood ran cold, the pen stilling in his hands as he glanced over at the time, it was late, Renée should have been home by now, "what happened." It didn't sound like a question to his ears, but it didn't really sound like a demand either. It was more of a hopeless plea.

"I was- _fuck_ I was driving, and I.. I-I fell asleep at the wheel, and I didn't-- I didn't _see_ her walking across the street..- looked like she just got back from a party, sh-she was wearing a black dress-"

 _No_ Crowley felt his chest seize up as the phone slipped from his fingers, _please god no_.

-

They were rival lawyer's at a law firm that a man named Nick Novak owned.

They were constantly at each other's throats when working job's, that anyone with eyes could clearly see that they hated one another. Or, at least, that's what it seemed like. They fought constantly, but only in front of others; which made them the easy choice to pick when doing cases in the firm. Crowley usually always got the culprit, while Bobby, who went by Winston, often got the victim.

They'd shout and argue with one another during case's, trying to prove right and wrong, and it could really be a show sometimes.

But after hours, they'd drive down to their shared home at the end of the day and they'd discuss like everyone else what need's to be done, and who they really believe is innocent or guilty and they'll push the trial one way or another to make sure the victim get's the relief they deserve.

They're not bad people, just people being people and doing what's best and it's hard sometimes.

It's one of the few lives where they really, truly, had each other.

At least until one of his clientele had brought in a weapon, so terrified of being imprisoned. There were shouts and screams, and he can remember feeling a sharp pain in his chest.

-

"I wish I knew what you wanted from me," and his voice was wavering, cold and broken, and the soft hitch on his lips broke Crowley's heart, "I wish I knew what I did _wrong_ , I thought we were-" and it's getting harder for him to breathe. His name is Charles, but Crowley already knew that wasn't quite true. "I thought after we settled down, we'd be okay, y'know?" And Crowley doesn't know, because it doesn't matter how many times he tries to get this right, he always ruins it somehow.

"Who's Bobby?" he demands, and Crowley almost wants to laugh at the irony but remember's that Bobby isn't Bobby, and Crowley isn't even a man in this life; they're both different, and Bobby will never remember.

"No one," She answer's honestly, sadly, but her tone suggest's that there's something more but she can never get past it, and Charles look's so hurt, like he doesn't even recognize her anymore. Which Crowley almost finds funny, because there was a life where this was reversed, and Bobby was leaving him-- but in that life, there was someone else, _really_ someone else, and not just a name that hadn't lived in this life.

"Don't _lie_ to me," and there are tears in his eyes, and anger in his posture, but Crowley can't bring it in herself to say that she wasn't, because Charles would never believe her anyways. She tries, even though she know's her attempt is useless.

And he's screaming, and he's crying, because Crowley was his everything. Because Crowley was by his side though a tough time in his life, and held his hand when he needed it, and now the betrayal has cut deep, even when Charles doesn't know that there really was only ever him.

And a million versions of the same.

Where Crowley was still just Crowley to him, and he's so angry but he can't bring it in himself to raise his hand against her, and he's throwing things and books and pillows, and slams the door behind himself as he leaves.

Where Charles doesn't ever come back to collect his things, and Crowley is left in the shell of their home where his books are laying on the floor and Crowley never got around to picking them up.

-

Maybe it was the 500th life he's lived, maybe it was the 501st life, but he never met Bobby in person. While Crowley was a high school history teacher, Bobby was a student in another class that Crowley never taught.

Honestly, he wouldn't have ever known that Bobby went to the school, had he not looked up when he heard the horn of the train feet from his body, and a strong shove from behind that pushed him out of the way.

There was a loud smack and a crunch and there were screams when he turned to look back at the scene that unfolded; the train was still moving, never stopping, never slowing, but the concrete was red and there was a bag by his feet and he didn't need to see the body to know who pushed him to safety.

-

"Please!" Crowley begged, tears brimming in his eyes and his body feeling weak, "please _don't_ do this, you don't _have_ to do this!"

"Anthony," the other pleaded back, a shaking frown tugging at his lips, "you _know_ I have to-"

" _No_ , darling, please, we can leave. We can _be_ together, they won't find you-"

" _Yes_ they _will_ ," he insisted, and it was the fear that was keeping him in place, "They'll find me, and they'll find you too, I can't.. I can't _put_ you in that kind of danger," and his voice wavered and his lower lip quivered, "you're safe right now, they.. you're in no danger, unless you _stay_ with me-!"

"You act like I _fucking care_ if they find out!" Crowley shouted, silencing the other man, "I don't care if those goddamn Nazi's burn my home to the ground with me in it, you _bastard_ ," he spat, "You're my friend. You're- I can't leave you to burn like that, and _you're not leaving_ , not without me, do you understand?"

He was quiet, and the attic they were hiding in was dark and musky, and they could hear the siren's above their head's. They can hear the bombings from a distance, and the sound of gunshots from miles away. Robert was frightened, but being a Jew in Germany in 1940 was terrifying, and had _every_ reason to be absolutely petrified and Crowley could only beg the other to stay because that's exactly what he needed to hear. Begged him to stay with him, because the moment he stepped out of that attic, they'd take him away. Take him to a place worse than death. Crowley felt, rather than saw, the other pull him close and hold onto him.

He could feel the frightened tremours running down his body, and Crowley would never leave him out like that. It's been a long time since Crowley had seen World War II, and it was even worse experiencing it as a human. The horror was too real, felt too real, the death's were closer to home, and he was watching loved one's fade away too soon-- too early. But not Robert, not this time.

So he clung to him, and they slid over to their safe little corner of the attic where they stayed deathly silent, hearing heavy steps and slams busting around on the floor below. There were gunshots, and they were getting too close.

"I love you," Robert whispered oh so gently into his hair, arm's wrapped tightly around Crowley's middle. He looked up at the man in surprise, but Robert kept his eyes level with the floor underneath their feet, "If I never get the chance to tell you, I want you to know that-"

Crowley opened his mouth to ask why he stopped, when he heard the attic door get blown off.

-

The building was burning and Nick had handed him their child from her crib, he screamed for her to run.

There was a snap and a thud, and when she turned around to call for him, half the building had fallen in on itself.

-

"Darling you _can't!_ " he cried, "she doesn't care about you! She doesn't _love_ you the way you love her!" _Or the way I love you_.

"Anthony, please, don't," her voice was trembling but hard, putting a new meaning to stiff upper lip, "I'm sorry, baby I'm so sorry, but it just-" she turned her head to stare at the carpet, blinking away the tears brimming in her eyes. Her hands clenched and unclenched, and her jaw tightened, "it wasn't- Crowley, it wasn't going to work between us. Don't deny that you didn't see this coming, we both saw this coming."

No, just her.

"Please," and it was a weak attempt to reconcile what had been broken, and she was looking at him with sad, apologetic eyes, but her hands still reached out and grabbed her bags. She left without turning back, and he stood there motionless, staring out of the door she escaped him from, slipping through his fingers, leaving him with only the soft smell of her perfume and the little memories she left behind.

-

He was standing only a few yards away from him, across the building he currently lived in. His feet were bare, and his window was open, as it usually was this time of year. The sound of traffic traveling underneath their feet, and it was late.

Maybe it could have been autumn, maybe it could have been spring, but season's changed, and that window was usually always open. Sometimes he would see him looking out it, sitting at a chair with a mug in his hands and Crowley sometimes wondered if it was the same cocoa he always preferred. Recently the mugs had turned to bottles, and that window never closed anymore.

Crowley's building had a balcony, he lived in a rather wealthy building in the middle of town, while the other lived in a pretty average apartment.

They never spoke before, never needed to. But sometime's Crowley would get caught looking at the man from his home, and they'd wave and Crowley would look away in his embarrassment, and sometimes he would feel eyes on him when he sit's out with a drink in hand and a book in the other.

They've been sort of neighbours for a few year's now, but they've never run into each other on the street's, never shared their friendly hello's, never even knew the other's name.

And right now he wished he made the effort in this life, because he see's him, and he's barefoot. But he's wearing a suit, and his hair is in a terrible disarray, and he's looking up at Crowley's window, but not at Crowley, who was shouting at him to get off the ledge.

But he stood there, and he smiled up, a sad little smile, and this was the first time Crowley noticed he was holding his shoes in his hands and wondered why they weren't on his feet until the man released his hold and they fell.

They fell for what felt like an eternity.

And when Crowley looked back up, breaking from his horrified trance, he saw him stretching out his arms to his sides, and in some horrifying moment, he looked as if he were imitating wings. He looked peaceful.

He screamed when the other looked up at him from his window, and he smiled, his feet tipping and he slipped forward into nothingness, his fingers outstretching and it looked as if he was flying until he reached the ground.

-

Crowley hates train's, always had. Hated how fast they went, hated the sounds; but most of all, he hates subway trains. The stations were always crowded, always dense, always filled, and always filthy.

And that's why he's here now.

Maybe, if he was lucky, this might be his last go at these lives. He's died so many ways, but never at his own hand, and maybe-- maybe if he _tried_ he might be able to stop this nightmare from happening again and again. Maybe he'll wake up, and he'll be back in the Bunker with Sam and Dean and Castiel, and Bobby's in heaven where he belongs and where he's happy. Maybe he won't have to keep watching him die, over and over; and maybe he won't have to watch him be happy without him.

There were times, in these lives, where he's fallen in love, long before he realized that Bobby was Bobby. Where he's met complete strangers where he's protected and looked after, and often times didn't see their face's, but after falling, he realizes, through one way or another, that it was him. That it's always been him.

He's stopped wedding's before, he's become a godfather to his children. Where he will always love the other, but Bobby doesn't always love him; can't love him. He's watched him grow, watched him pick himself up and he's watched Bobby fall from ledges or put a bullet between his eyes. He's watch him be killed in battle, lose his way, he's watched him die too many times. Die _for_ him too many times.

Enough was enough.

So now, he was waiting, listening for the train to come. He had about five more minutes.

Death no longer frightened him the way it used to; it used to hurt, when he had finally found a life where he was remotely happy, and it ended abruptly. It's become rather numb to him now, it wasn't even funny. It became a certainty he would expect, and often times he wished it would be the end. That _this_ would be the last life, and he'd be able to come to grips with himself.

He was the King of Hell, or used to be anyways. He wasn't even sure what he was anymore; he's been almost everything he could think of. He's been gods, and demi-gods, and would be gods, angels and creatures, and sometimes not even human. But still, he remembered, always remembered.

Three more minutes.

There were a few set's of eyes on him now, maybe it was the way he was standing, as he could feel a few eyes on his shoulders. Perhaps he was a little close to the edge, but nobody went out of their way to pull him back.

Goes to show how much people don't honestly care.

He's learned this a few times in his lives, but perhaps he's never really appreciated how heartless humans truly were.

One more minute.

He can hear it now, not too far away. It was close now, he could see the light's down the tunnel, and when he saw the head, he knew it would only be seconds.

He jumped down.

There was a shout, someone saw him, but he suspected it was going to happen anyways. The train wasn't far now, never is, and a few moment's before the impact.

He felt a hand on his collar and a hard yank lifted him out of harms way, pulling him so hard they both toppled onto the concrete of the subway platform. The horror rushing over him when he saw the train slip past his foot as he was tugged, and the anger he felt when he realized he was still there. He remembers screaming at whoever did it, his eyes had been so blurry he couldn't make out a face but someone was holding him and he just kept shouting and swearing and his cheeks felt wet and it must have been a sight.

He was 21 years old, trying to throw himself out in front of a train, and he couldn't even do _that_ right. He could feel eyes on him from everywhere, there must have been so many people watching him act so foolish and watching him as he started to give under the pressure. That his shouts melted into cries then sob's and he felt so utterly weak. He doesn't recall standing up, but there's a jacket over him and an arm over his torso and whoever's got him is talking to him; and the only thing he notes is how softly they speak.

It isn't until he finds himself in a car that he tries to calm down, but he can't. Thousands of lives flashing before his eyes, every death, every fight, every war; it was killing him, because he can still see every time he's failed to pull Bobby out of the fire, every time he's gotten him killed and he finds himself crying harder because he can't stop.

There's a hand on his back, and the car is moving but he doesn't look up because he doesn't care. 

It's when the car finally stops, does Crowley try and wipe away his tears, but there's a hand on his shoulder and he's being taken from the car and he's too disoriented to realize what was going on until he feel's those familiar hands touch his back once again.

"Why-" he couldn't finish the sentence, because the other doesn't let him,

"Sam," he calls out instead, and two young boy's, ages maybe 15 and 12, come trotting down the stairs, only to stop when they notice the man on the couch. Crowley looks up at them but quickly downcasts his eyes.

"Boy's, can you grab me a glass of water and a blanket?" The older one, which Crowley doesn't have to hear the man call him by his name to know his name is Dean, nodded mutely and pulled Sam along and out of the room. He looks over at Crowley with worried eye's, and pulls his jacket off of his shoulders.

The boys return almost as quickly as they had left, with Dean carrying the water, and Sammy was holding the blanket. The man thanked them, before taking the blanket and pulling it over his shoulders, offering the glass, but when Crowley stayed unresponsive, he place it to the side.

"What the hell were you thinking?" the man demanded, but he didn't sound disappointed, nor did he sound angry; he sounded scared, worried.

Crowley was struggling to open his mouth, because he was afraid of what might tumble out. "I don't know," he said instead, his voice raw from crying and his chest felt heavy.

"You don't just _randomly_ decide to jump out in front of a train, y'idjit," he continued, and Crowley never appreciated how he sounded before, he sounded.. he sounded like he was supposed to. 

He sounded like Bobby.

Crowley finally made to upturn his eyes at the man. Looking up to see the face he's seen a thousand times in a thousand lives, and he feel's as if he could die. He wanted to avoid this, avoid _all_ of this again. But instead he was greeted by an aged face with a trimmed beard wearing a dirty ball cap; there was flannel on his shoulder's, and his eyes- they were the same shade of blue he remembered. But his nose was different, and so was his build. Still not quite the same, but close enough that it had Crowley into an almost stunned silence.

Bobby furrowed his brows at the man, "Look, I know it's none of my business, but you need to get help," his voice wasn't accusing, wasn't demanding. He took Crowley's silence as a bad sign, and assumed he did something wrong, instead of the exact opposite, "look, I know you don't know me-"

"No," and Crowley's voice surprised him when it fell from his mouth, it was raw and a lot more angry than he wanted it to be, but it also sounded hopeless, and perhaps that's why Bobby hasn't snapped at him. "No, that's the whole _bloody_ problem, don't you see?" And for a moment, Crowley almost forgot that no, he _couldn't_ actually see, because he _can't_ remember. "I _do_ know you, and it's driving me _up_ the _fucking-wall_ , Robert," he hissed, "I've known you for a thousand lifetimes and I'll know you for a thousand more and I _can't do_ this anymore!"

His voice was at a rasped shout by the end of it, and Bobby was eyeing him carefully. He was almost waiting for men in white coats to come in and take him away, but instead Bobby just watched him, his lips falling apart and then, "how do you know my name?"

Crowley sighed, his fingers tugging at the sleeves of his jacket, which had become a terrible nervous habit in the past several lifetimes, averting his eyes from the man, "I told you," he breathed, "I know you, but sometimes your name changes. Sometimes you're a James, other time's you're a Renée, but you've.. you've always been Robert to me."

Bobby was looking at him curiously, "what else do you know?"

"Depends," Crowley swallowed, squinting his eyes carefully at the man, "it changes every life, but you-" Crowley wished it was easier to explain, " you always love cocoa, prefer it to tea. You're a hunter, hunted monster's, demon's and the like. Even stopped a few Apocalypse with the Hardy boy's that just left the room," he sniffed, "Sam and Dean Winchester, they save the world and ruin it countless time. And you- you lived in Singer's Salvage, owned a junk yard outside of your _real_ job, which was looking into research for other hunters. Oldest of your breed, you used to say."

There was a soft, thoughtful sound in the back of the other's throat, like he was thinking.

And maybe he thought this stranger sitting on the couch was a bit crazy, and maybe he didn't; maybe he couldn't decide and that was alright too. "I don't think you're lying," he said after a moment, and it sounded more like an afterthought, after deciding against something else. "But, if that were true, why can't I remember you?"

"I don't know," Crowley frowned, "I don't know why."

"Is it-" he paused, waving his hand idly as he tried to find his words, "is it.. y'know, me? Or are there other people?"

"There's other's," Crowley admitted, "but they only show up, once you do."

"Never before?"

"Never."

And he went quiet again, as he eyed the other down, because maybe he really _did_ think he was crazy, but maybe not. A pink tongue darted out between his lips and he swiped it over his lower, and he was just watching the other watch him and the room they sat in felt suffocating. Crowley wanted nothing more than to bury himself into the blankets on his shoulder, and maybe the glass of water didn't sound so bad anymore, but he stopped himself from making any sudden movements, mostly because he was drained, and he wasn't entirely sure what use it would have made anyways. When Bobby looked ready to open his mouth again, something occurred to man in the blanket.

"Why were you in the subway?" he found the words falling slowly from his lips before they really even registered to his brain. Bobby gave him an odd look, but Crowley continued, "you were at the station for a reason, what was it?"

Bobby blinked at him, "I-" and his lips closed together and his face pinched because he couldn't remember. "I uh, I don't know," he answered, "I just know I needed to be down there."

"Like, something was pulling you there?"

"Yeah, how'd you know?" because it seemed rather obvious, and it made the shorter man realize that he's never actually asked the old hunter that question before. Why he was where he was- he just sort of thought it chance, and it never really occurred to him that there might not have been a purpose.

"It's a good thing too," he continued on, once he realized the man covered in his blanket wasn't going to answer him, "you almost got yourself killed."

"Not like it would have made much of a difference," Crowley muttered venomously, more to himself than to the other, but Bobby didn't miss a word of it, "I would have just woken up again," and his voice softened and lowered, because he never really admitted it to himself before, "I always wake up."

"From a dream?"

"From a life."

"How.. ah, how many-?" and Bobby stopped himself because he realized that he'd probably sound just as crazy, but Crowley understood none the less.

"Too many," he breathed, "far too many to count."

"And I'm always there?"

"Usually," and Crowley prevented himself from elaborating, no matter how much he wanted to run his finger's through Renée's soft hair, or wrap his legs around Eddy's strong hips, and kiss away all of Charles worries and fears. Or how he wants to tell every version of this man how much he loves him and how much it physically _hurts_ but he can't, so he bites his tongue, like he always does. "Sometimes we never really meet."

And those lives live on more often than not, but it almost makes living it out almost bearable, because he know's he doesn't have to see him go away again. After he promised he wouldn't.

But Crowley often time's liked to forget that human's can't always keep their promises.

And they sit there, quiet, and he hears the hitch in the other's breathing that say's he's about to speak, but the words don't come for a while, "why not?"

And Crowley doesn't know what to say. Maybe fate want's to tear him apart, maybe it was a sign that they couldn't always have each other, and he say's so and Bobby looks at him as if he's known him his whole life, because he makes that face that he can still see from life after life, and sometimes he can hardly picture what his own Bobby looked like, but this one comes close enough that the expression sort of felt like home.

"Maybe I'm not trying hard enough," Bobby eventually say's, and there's distaste on his lips, but not from humouring the crazy bastard by his side, but rather because he believes that he isn't giving this whole afterlife his all.

"You can't help it," Crowley say's back, but his voice is almost a whisper. "It's not your fault you can't remember."

"Maybe not remember but-" and Bobby keeps pausing when it feel's as if he's going to say something significant, he hesitates, and that's nothing like what his own Bobby was, but he let's it slide because no one ever really comes close, "I get these.. these vague impressions. You know?" And Crowley doesn't, so he waits for the other to continue. "It's like, I know there's something erm... someone, waiting around, and maybe it's been you, but maybe not." Crowley's almost certain it _is_ him, but he doesn't say so aloud.

"In.. our, uh- in our first life. Who.." Bobby exhaled a heavy sigh, "who were you?"

Crowley almost didn't want to say, but he's been lying for countless lifetimes, and he just didn't want to anymore, "I was a demon," and his voice is slow, and Bobby is staring at him, but Crowley can't bring himself to catch his gaze, "I was a crossroad's demon, and we were adversary's, and then we weren't." and it was easier to say that than admit he took his soul; and it was easier to say that, than admit how close they had actually become.

Perhaps Bobby knew there was more to that story, perhaps not, but he didn't press.

"Then why are you still waiting around for me?" his voice had gotten softer, and he was really looking at the man sitting a little ways away from him, "if I can't remember you, why do you still stick around?"

 _Because you're my home_ , he thought to himself, sadly, _even when I'm not yours._

"I swore to you I would," and that was a promise he made so long ago, where he was still ruling hell and Bobby had still been alive, and they would muse together on Sunday morning's when everyone had gone to church, and Bobby had feared of dying alone.

And he has.

Over, and over, and over again.

"I can't even remember that promise."

"You wouldn't," Crowley insisted, "but I do." And at this point, that's all he really had. 

But this version of his Bobby had that look in his eye, like he was figuring something out and soon there was a gentle yet rough hand against his arm, and voice so carefully articulated, it almost didn't even sound like him. "Look, from the sounds of it, I wasn't much. Yeah, I saved a few lives, and maybe made a bit of a difference, but we were on opposite sides of the battlefield," he said slowly, carefully, "I don't know what we were to each other, but I must have been something important to you or else you wouldn't be waiting around. But, just.."

The hunter stopped, chewing the inside of his cheek as he thought over what he was trying to say, "just.. promise me, no matter how many lives you end up living, try not to live them for me, okay?" Crowley didn't move for a long moment, "promise me that you won't go jumpin' in front of trains either because of some promise we made only _god_ know's when, alright?" the other nodded slowly.

"And, one last thing," Bobby brushed his hand up and touched the side of Crowley's face, who couldn't help but lean into the hold. Bobby brought up both hands and held his face between his palms, and looked down at him with as much seriousness he could muster, "I know I can't promise you a thing, but, maybe, if this is all real. I'll come and find you, one way or another, I'll be there. As long as you swear to me that you'll give me the chance, no leaving early to avoid the rush."

There was a weak chuckle on his lips before he could stop it, and Bobby was smiling too, "how's that sound?"

"Like a plan," even if it wasn't full proof, it was certainly something.

-

"For _fucks sake_ Robert," Crowley hissed, "the _one_ hunt I let you drag me on, it's a bleeding _nest_!"

"I thought it was only the few!" Bobby insisted, growling as he reloaded his shotgun, "goddamn demon's, spawning out of nowhere.."

"I could be _home_ right now, you know," he muttered bitterly, "I could be taking call's from the boys, and maybe eating dinner right about now. But _no_ , I'm going to get killed because of _you_."

"At least you're dying with me."

" _Oh ho_ , yes," Crowley snapped sarcastically, "real bloody consolation prize."

"At least it ain't Alastair," and although Crowley wanted nothing more than to smack that stupid grin from his face, he had a point.

The Scottish hunter growled at him, his lips turning into a sneer, " _Fine_ , but if we survive this, you owe me dinner for risking my life."

Bobby didn't respond, but instead smiled. They _did_ , however, end up surviving, and although Crowley didn't think Bobby would remember his threat, he got dragged over to the hunters home about a week later, with much complaining on his end, which quickly stopped when he saw the pots on the oven and plates on the table. And the sheepish smile on the other's lips once Crowley realized that he had even combed his hair.

-

"Meg, have you got my shipment yet?" he shouted out to his assistant, "we're still missing a few copies of _Lord of the Flies_ and _Good Omens_."

Meg, a dark haired woman with a clip on her shoulder strolled up beside him with a heavy box in her hands, "yeah, I've got a few more out back, but they're pretty big," she mumbled, "not sure I'm going to be able to pick them up by myself."

"Don't worry about it," he helped her pull the box onto the counter, reaching around the back to slip out some scissors to break the box tape, "start putting these away, would you? I'll head out and grab the rest."

"No problemo," and she was swatting his hand away, moving into his spot to pull out the book's and stacking them onto the counter to organize in a minute. Crowley left without another word and slipped out the back door's where he nearly slammed into another man, holding a box in his grasp and he nearly fell over.

"Oh _damn_!" Crowley's hand's snapped forward, keeping the man steady on his feet, "I am _so_ , terribly sorry, sir," he hastily apologized, "I didn't see you there."

The delivery man chuckled and waved it off, "it's alright, it happens," leaning down, he set the box to the ground, pulling out a clip board and held it out to the other, "would you mind signing here?"

"Course," and his signature was scrawled out in terrible penmenship, but the other didn't mind and looked down at it, most likely from habit, when his brow raised.

"Your name's Crowley?"

The bookshop owner blinked up at the man and nodded, reaching down to try and lift the heavy box, "yes. Why?"

The other shook his head, shrugging, "It's a nice name, different."

Crowley chuckled, struggling to get the box even a few inches off the pavement, "thank you, mister..?"

"Bobby," he answered, and Crowley blinked.

"Huh," he murmured, before smiling, "don't think I've ever met a Bobby before."

The stranger had a gentle smile before offering his hand under the box, "here, let me help."

"Oh, you don't have to-"

"No, really," and both of his hands were on the package and helping him lift it up, before Crowley could even protest, "I insist."

-

Lips were pressing against his collarbone and down his chest, the gesture was lazy as they were both worn out and tired, but it still fell so good to have his hands on his hips, and his soft hair brushing along the underside of his jaw.

His eyes were a brilliant blue, and although Crowley was never one for one-night stands, the stranger had taken his breath away.

Lips were dragging back up his neck, and the man was still nestled between his legs, and there was a soft laugh against his lips and neither knew why, but they both started laughing. Maybe it was because of how ridiculous they felt, or how intense all of that was, but they were laughing, and they couldn't stop.

-

A frustrated sigh brushed past the professor's lips, muttering to himself as he asked, yet _another_ student for directions to the west wing. He was new on campus, and didn't quite know his way around just yet; not to mention his class had already started and yet he _still_ hadn't shown up.

What a _wonderful_ way to spend his first day.

His frustration must have been pouring off of him, because an older gentlemen, maybe just a few years older than himself, began walking up to him with a perplexed, if not a bit amused, look on his face.

He approached with a saunter, and with a tilt of his head, "What's wrong?" and although he looked like a gentlemen, he was certainly direct with his questioning. Crowley couldn't bring it in himself to be mad, and figured that maybe he could help.

"Yes, ah," he looked around himself, and to the few straggling student's rushing to their classes, "I'm new here, and I'm rather lost, ah-" he paused, before shaking his head, "Where's my manners?" he said hastily, reaching out his hand, that wasn't holding all of his books, for the other to take, almost as an afterthought, "I'm Anthony, the new English professor in the west wing."

The other accepted his hand graciously, "Well, shit. You're Cain's replacement, aren't you?" he said with a smile, "I'm Richard, and, to your luck it may seem, I'm heading there myself."

"Really?"

"Yes," he nod's, "I'm the Biblical Studies professor, and if uh.. my timings about right, aren't you late for a class?"

Crowley shrank slightly, "not exactly been a great first day," he paused, "wait, how'd you know?"

Richard shrugged, making a small gesture with his hand to indicate to the other to walk beside him, "I knew the last English professor," he looked off somewhere in front of them, slipping his hands back into his pockets. "Older guy, real friendly, don't get me wrong, but his teaching methods were still trapped somewhere in the 14th century," the younger snorted, "well, ah- our classrooms were right next too each other, so I'm sure I'll be able to get you were you need to go."

"That sounds lovely," Crowley breathed out a sigh of relief, "thank you so much, my student's probably think I'm a no show."

"If they're in college, I'm fairly certain they're used to it by now."

They walked the rest of the way, chatting amongst themselves before Richard stopped off by Crowley's classroom door, "this should be your room," he finished, "and good luck on your first day."

"Thank you again," and Crowley couldn't have sounded any more sincere than that, "really."

Richard smiled faintly at him, watching him turn before stopping him, "wait, ah-" Crowley peered over his shoulder, brow quirked, "after you're, um- done, maybe we could grab some coffee, and I could show you around? Give you a ah.." he brought his hand to the back of his neck, scratching almost idly before letting it drop back to his side, "give you a _proper_ tour this time around?"

There was something in his voice that laughs, in a nervous sort of way that clearly said he wasn't sure what he was saying. It was familiar, like a photograph was familiar, but the English Professor couldn't put his finger on as to why that was.

Crowley looked him up and down, before smiling, "I'd like that."

-

"Happy Birthday!" Crowley walked into their shared bedroom with a cupcake in each hand, where Bobby was lying on the cover's of their bed with a book in hand and glasses pushed up his nose. He blinked up in surprise as the other walked closer, before a smile broke out over his lips.

"It's 12:01," Bobby chuckled, placing his bookmark in place and setting it off to his nightstand.

"I couldn't wait," Crowley smiled sheepishly, slipping onto the bed beside his husband, both in their pajama's as they had just gotten ready for bed an hour previous. Bobby reached out a hand to take a cupcake from his husband, while his arm hooked around the other's waist, pulling him up close until Crowley moved to straddle his waist.

"I'm not pulling out the candle's until later on," Crowley said with a grin, "I've got this _whole_ plan for it too, I'm going to have Meg come over. John and Mary just had two kids too, and they'll be over around one."

"What's the point of a surprise party if you don't keep it a surprise?"

"You don't like surprises, so I'm doing you a favour. You're welcome."

Bobby chuckled, "You spoil me, you know that?"

The other scoffed, "Just barely, love," he leaned forward to press a soft kiss against the other's mouth, swiping a bit of the icing off his cupcake before wiping it on his lovers face. Bobby made an undignified sound, narrowing his eyes at the other but there was a smirk twitching at the sides of his lips before he shoved his _whole_ cupcake against the other's face, who let out a shout.

"Oh _now_ you're just playing dirty," he snapped, making to wipe off some of the icing from his cheek, and smeared it against the other's hair. "Oh no, look at that, look's as if we're going to have to shower now. Hm, pity,"

"Oh, and I had _actually_ wanted to sleep tonight, too bad," Bobby replied, just, if not more, sarcastically. Brushing his face forward, his pulled his lover down into a warm kiss, and they ended up breaking it off after they realized that icing and skin wasn't in the _least_ bit comfortable.

"Meet me there?" Bobby murmured softly, holding the other's face between his palms just inches from his own. Crowley didn't even bother fighting his smile and nodded.

"I'll clean off this mess and grab some clothes-"

"Part two of your plan won't be necessary, you think?" But Crowley wasn't even really thinking at this point, once Bobby's teeth bit down on his lower lip, and all he could make was a soft sound in the back of his throat, "I'll see you in a minute?"

"Of course, darling," and Bobby slipped away after pressing one more kiss to the side of his face before disappearing out the door, and down the hall, where Crowley assumed he was heading for the shower. He took a moment to wipe off a bit more of the cupcake off of his face, and chuckled at the crumbs on his shirt, tossing out the remains, he turned to the entrance of his bedroom, planning on probably never wearing clothes again, when a figured in his doorway stopped him.

He was a bit taller than himself, with a perplexed expression on his face and his eyes squinted; his tie was backwards and on his shoulders he was wearing a dirty trenchcoat.

He looked around the room for only a second before his eyes landed on him, "Crowley," his voice was deep, and oh so familiar, but he couldn't put his finger on why. Thought's of great ethereal and celestial power flew across his mind, with wings that weren't quite so fluff and betrayal fluttered in his minds eyes. He thought of soldiers and wars he can't quite remember, and suddenly his head was in a lot of pain.

Deep blue eyes became wide and he reached out for him before everything went black.

-

Richard buried his finger's against his hips, lips pressing along his jaw as they tried to silence their moans in the college's supply closet.

He can't remember if he had a class to teach or not.

-

Eddy looked at him from across the stage, smiling that broad smile of his. His screen play was being made into a television series, and he was gifted a full on contract. Crowley couldn't help but grin back, even when he didn't feel as enthusiastic.

-

The bookshop was closed for the weekend, and although he had plates set out on his kitchen table, sitting somewhere in the back of the shop, they sat there, completely untouched rather than used. Dinner had been forgotten, and clothes were discarded and two strong arms wrapped around his middle with rough lips latched onto his neck. Where his nails dug too deeply against his back, and his leg's fell further apart and he can't remember a time where he's felt so under attention.

There were fingers in his hair, holding him firmly against the couch, and the other's hips digging between his legs.

The couch under his back was a bit uncomfortable, but the other made him forget that anything beside's themselves existed.

-

They danced on their wedding day, because Renée insisted that he try.

He's never been all that good at it, but her face was shining and her eyes were bright, and he could never really tell her no.

-

He feels like he's falling, his hands reaching out towards nothingness and there's a light at the far end. It's calling for him, actually shouting his name and he see's the dirty trench coat again, and he's confused and he can't breathe. There are hands on his shoulder's, and they're pulling at him, but he's resisting.

"No!" his shout was a broken gasp, tugging away from something so much stronger than him, "please, don't-!"

"Crowley," and the angel say's his name again, repeats it, beg's for him to listen, and a name comes to mind.

"Castiel," and _Jesus_ he hadn't said that name in so long, but he doesn't have time to dwell on it, as memories are forcing their way to the surface, and he's screaming for it to stop. He remembers late nights, and blond hair and wars that had happened in many lives. He remember's actors and actresses, and ball gowns and nice suits; headphones, and hoodies, and squeaky shoes and ledges and so many screams. Thousands of lives hit him in one go, and he's so disoriented, grasping at straws.

"No!" he screams at the angel, "Please! I- I'm happy here, just-" and he feel's like he's falling for a moment, and so very suddenly the room around him shift's and he feel's something on his face, reaching up to find incing on his palm, and he can hear the soft patter of a shower in the other room.

His heart is erratic, and he rushes out of the room, only to slam back into the man he was married too. Bobby had a strange sort of look on his face, before some sort of understanding, or perhaps it was recognition, dawned on his face.

"It's you," _on the balcony above, the gangster, the captain, the professor, the barista,_ "it's always been you," _with the gun, in the attic, in the subway, on the roof, in the bookstore, falling from miles but never able to stop_.

"I told you," and suddenly this reality became more of a dream that was fading in and out, "I promised I wouldn't leave."

"Crowley," and this wasn't Bobby speaking, the voice coming from behind. Crowley turned to look, and the angel was standing there, but his expression no longer looked perplexed, but rather sad. "Crowley, you're trapped-"

"No," he snapped, "don't you _dare_ finish that sentence," he wasn't ready to leave, he didn't care if this was his eternal punishment, he didn't care if he was trapped in a loop for the rest of time; he had suffered through too many lives, he's gone through a million different hell's and finally he found one where he was happy, and everything was alright. It was Bobby's birthday, and he had planned a party and made a cake that was sitting in the fridge.

Castiel can't take this away from him now.

Not _now_.

"You waited," his voice was thick and there was a lump in his throat, "You waited fifteen _thousand_ lives, to take it away," he didn't notice the horror that flashed across the other's face, the surprise, "You waited until I _didn't want to leave_ to take me away. Wh-where were you when I was screaming for this nightmare to end until I was blue in the face? Where were you when there were wars, and how _dare_ you come to me now, _right_ when I finally figured out how to make it work." And damn it all he was forcing back tear's, and his breathing was shallow and he wasn't ready to go.

Castiel was watching him, his shoulder slouched and he looked so apologetic is was disgusting. "Crowley," and _damn it_ he was tired of the other saying his name, "You were captured by a Djinn a week ago," his voice was gruff but softer than it usually was, "it took us day's to locate you. We didn't know the sort of influence it may have on you, seeing as you're a demon."

But he wasn't. He wasn't a demon.

"It seem's like it's been.." Castiel couldn't find it in himself to finish, "It's time for you to come back."

"Please," the plea fell from his lips before he could stop himself, and Castiel gave pause, looking at him thoroughly. "Please, Castiel, you don't understand, if I wake up there, Bobby-"

He didn't have to finish his sentence for Castiel to understand, for him to realize the absolute depth of what he was asking for. But Castiel thought of Dean, he thought of the brother's waiting for him to pull the King of Hell out of his head. The boy's need him there, need his help with the Mark, and Hell need's a ruler.

But this? Castiel was a lot of things, but cruel wasn't it. Yet, he knew he had to pull him out, knew there wasn't any sort of alternative to this, but the look on Crowley's face was so open, so different. Some part of him wanted to let him live out another eternity here, let him have this-- But there were other people in need of his assistance right now, and maybe one day, he could make it up to him.

-

When Crowley awoke this time, he was lying on some sort of table, it was cold and his wrist's ached and he felt as if he were dying. Something about this felt more real, more physical, and there were hands on his arms, shaking him awake and voice's when he gasped for breath. Every inch of him felt weak, as he could barely move and his limbs were drained. He felt two arms slip underneath his body, one at his shoulder blades and the other by the crook his his knee, and he felt himself being lifted by two strong arms, who he later found out had been Sam, and carried away before slipping out of consciousness.

Dean pulled the Impala around the warehouse until Sam stepped out, Castiel in tow. There was a lengthy stretch of silence as Cas assisted the two of them into getting Crowley into the back seat, after refusing to allow Dean to just "stuff him in the trunk."

"He's _Ill_ , Dean," he had growled at the hunter, but Dean had only just rolled his eyes.

"He's a demon," Dean retorted, "give him about ten minute's and he'll be fine."

"I wasn't talking about physically."

When Dean went quiet, it was then Sam that then spoke up on Cas's behalf, and insisted Crowley be allowed in the back seat, and Cas was more than fine with being seated back there as well. The brother's had expected a bit of an argument, or even a sigh, but Castiel settled in his seat with the unconscious demon's head on his lap, and stayed quiet throughout most of the ride.

It wasn't until they pulled back into the bunker, Sam lifting Crowley out and taking him to one of the unused guest room's, did Dean pull Cas into the kitchen and start demanding answer's. At least, in his own way; he pulled out three beers, sliding one over to Cas and then to Sam once he returned, and he simply started asking questions. Many of which Castiel couldn't answer, at least not completely, or even all that honestly.

"C'mon," the older Winchester insisted, "you had to have seen _something_ , what was it like in his head?"

The angel merely shrugged, keeping his eyes steady on the cold bottle of beer in his hands, opened, but he hadn't taken a drink. "I told you," he sighed instead, "It was hard to place."

"Cas," it was Sam this time, leaning on the counter, his own beer unopened, "you keep _saying_ that, but you've got to give us some specific's here."

"Yeah, like what kind of twisted up paradise was _he_ living?" Dean took a swig, pulling up a chair across from the angel, and soon Sam was rounding the counter to take a seat too.

"I-" he paused, pulling at the sleeves of his trench coat, as if it held all the answer's, "I was only there for a few minutes-" he made a small gesture with his hand, " _maybe_ , but time, it- It moved differently there. Faster, too fast."

"Like putting a cassette tape on fast-forward?" Dean asked, but Castiel only shook his head.

"No," and he was stopping because he wasn't sure how to explain it in a way that they would understand, "It felt like- It felt like Crowley was a project that the Djinn was never happy with. Never satisfied with the results," his eyes squinted as he tried to remember what Crowley had told him, "when I found him, he was very.. very _human_ , I believe is the correct term. Very angry, very sad. He was yelling at me," Crowley hadn't even really looked like his vessel when he pulled him out, he looked taller, his hair was darker, maybe a bit longer, "I recall him claiming I waited some fifteen thousand or so lifetime's to rescue him."

Sam's brow's lifted, "Fifteen _thousand_?" he looked between his brother and the angel, a bewildered expression festering on his face, "how's that even possible?"

"Well, he's a demon, for one," Dean commented, looking up as Cas as he took another drink, "we already know he's got a near unlimited blood supply, especially if the Djinn is getting ready to go into a hibernation, and let's him replenish, so what's _not_ to say he gives him every life he's ever wanted?"

"That seem's to be only partly true," Castiel say's after a moment, "when I came, Crowley-- he was fighting me. There seemed to be a deep sadness there, and there were-" his brows furrow as he struggles to come up with the right words, "-these _flashes_ when Crowley tried rejecting me from his mind. I saw lifetimes, and I believe he did too, because he didn't recognize me at first."

"What kind of flashes?" Dean asked, "like- bad Sunday night at the rave kind of flashes, or what?"

"I think he mean's memories, Dean," Sam interjected, watching Castiel carefully, who nodded at him.

"Yes, memories. I believe that the Djinn was giving him so many chances, because he realized that he couldn't make him happy."

"-and Djinn prefer blood of someone who's happy," Sam finished, "That would explain why Crowley wasn't hooked up."

"So," Dean paused, "wait, you're telling me that a creature, a creature's whose _only_ ability is to make some poor saps dreams come true, and yet he screwed up over _fifteen thousand_ times with a demon?"

"Crowley's a difficult creature," Castiel sighed, leaning back in his seat, "I've worked with him before, and yet I've never been completely certain on his motives."

"Or Crowley didn't know what he wanted," Sam supplied, looking back over at the angel, "maybe he wasn't sure what _would_ make him happy, so the Djinn didn't know what to do."

"He knew what he wanted," Castiel amended, fingering the tip of the bottle before picking it up; thinking back to all the faces he saw in those flashes, and back in the bedroom with the icing on his face, standing in front of the very same hunter they've lost a few years before, "he just didn't know how."

Crowley awoke with a start for the very last time, fingers grasping at the sheet's by his hips and lungs gasping for air; feeling deprived of it. There was sweat on his forehead, and perspiration along his torso, but there wasn't a beat in his chest nor was the blood in his veins moving, realizing with in a faint moment of horror that he didn't really even _need_ air; his skin felt wrong on his arms and leg's, and this body didn't feel like his own. But _oh_ he felt tired, and his limbs ached as if they really _were_ his, and that's all he could feel.

For some reason he kept thinking that Bobby was going to walk into the room, wonder why he was taking so long to join him in the shower, and Crowley wanted to say it was because he got a headache, but he remembered Castiel tearing about his mental brace and how white hot his touch was when he pulled him through the iron gate that was his mind.

He hadn't been real after all.

None of it had been real.

There were footsteps rushing down a long corridor that sounded as if it went on for miles before they reached just outside his door; it was shoved open and the first inside had been the same bloody angel who yanked him from his dream in the first place. He didn't know whether to be angry, or grateful.

He wasn't sure what had alarmed the Hardy boy's and their pet angel, but maybe he shouted as he woke; maybe it was something else, he didn't know. Pushing unsteadily to his elbow's, he saw white spots in his vision, and soon there was a gentle hand on his shoulder, escorting him back to lay down.

"Don't hurt yourself," came a careful voice, and Crowley, for the life of him, couldn't pinpoint who had said it.

He blinked a few times, the back of his head hitting the pillow, and the mattress by his hip dipped slightly, indicating someone had taken a seat. It took a few moments for his vision to clear and become less foggy, squinting his eyes at the light's that had entered the room, taking him a full moment to realize it wasn't _light_ but rather _energy_ , and suddenly, for the first time in nearly a hundred and fifty centuries, he could see a person's soul.

He could feel it's warmth from across the room, and could pinpoint whose belonged to whom.

Sam's was almost a pure white, the trials having had purified and wrenched him spotless, the center a soft blue hue. Yet, Dean's was darker, and there was something overshadowing his, twisting it ever so slowly, curling around him like a parasite; it was mesmerizing.

"Mark of Cain," was the first thing to fall from his lips. He was.. he was the King of Hell, his name was Crowley. He was a 17th century Scottish tailor, and he sold his soul to later become a demon. He was a crossroads demon. Dean Winchester and Sam Winchester were his adversaries, usually anyways. They hunt monsters, because monster's exist; and he's one of them.

It took a week for him to get back on his feet, and three for him to locate a way to eradicate the Mark of Cain from Dean's person. There was an frumpy angel that worked at a bookshop up in London, who was called the Principality; he sparked up something familiar in the demon, but Crowley never bothered to try and figure out what. Regardless, he was able to find out that he had been around since the beginning, and had been a guard of the Garden of Eden; he's been around before Lucifer's fall and even when Cain had originally killed Abel. He knew the story, simply because he had been there, and was happy to help with reversing the effects.

Even when he swore he barely remembered that sort of magic.

Soon things began going as they should, and Crowley was back in hell, where he belonged.

Sam and Dean were then, after the older Winchester had been cured and put back to his old self, currently looking for a way to replenish Castiel's original grace; needless to say he hadn't heard from them in month's. Soon another Apocalypse was rearing its ugly head, and he was back on the side of the demon's and away from Team Free Will. They fought, and they argued, but this time he didn't snap himself away.

They were angry with him, but they were always angry; at the world, at their lives, with each other. Unfortunately, Crowley had gotten careless, didn't check the rug and didn't feel its energy as he so stupidly stepped into it. Reminded him of a time where he no longer had to worry about the Winchester's offing him, but he sometimes forgot he shouldn't underestimate their anger.

He didn't even notice how carefully Dean was circling around the outer rim of the trap, keeping his attention as he spoke. Didn't notice as Sam fell out of view, and almost didn't notice the flash of silver before a sharp sting jolted through his body. He saw red at first, and with a broken sound, the scream died on his lips before a pure white light blasted and filled up the building they were in.

There were moment's, soft, fluttering, barely there moments, where he was grasping at his life. There were moments, more profound, more set in his mind, where he felt himself fading in and out of existence. But in the end, he always sort of knew that the Winchester's would get the upper hand, and he'd be too distracted to stop them.

And so his body became limp and collapsed to the floor, for what felt like the very last time.

Then, he woke up.


End file.
